Beauty in the Eye and All That
by Chad Rohrbacher

When we walked into Bopa's office, there were two schlubs in nice suits that I had never seen before sitting across from him. The bald one had sweat dripping down the back of his neck which he dabbed with a handkerchief. Two of Bopa’s security guards stood on either side of the room, impassive. A man wouldn’t know they were there if he wasn’t looking for them.

“Sit. Sit. We’re just about done.”

Bopa’s baritone voice dropped another octave. So I took the chair by the window, back facing them. This wasn’t quite fair to her, but I had a feeling this show was for her as much as it was for the suits. Bopa paid me to trust my feelings.

“Mr. Lambert, you look thirsty. There’s a fountain over there.”

“Maybe a sip. Thank you, sir. Mr. Bopa.”

I looked out the window where the sky met the trees and I wondered where the hell I was.

Bopa installed the water fountain a couple years back. It looked like standard fair, anything you’d see in a courthouse or school or whatever, but only three men have ever taken a drink from it. I listened to the button depress, the water splash metal, and then the part scream, part gurgle Mr. Lambert exhaled. The other suit screamed a long, drawn out, perfectly pitched scream then retched all over himself.

My eyes passed over her on my way to view the scene. She seemed disinterested, like she was watching a tire run over a nail, or a hair falling off a tip of a brush. Shifting further, I saw Lambert where I knew he’d be -- dead on the floor.

Bopa had set the fountain’s water to a cool 375 degrees which could easily sterilize medical equipment. It was also hot enough to make the skin of a man’s lips fall off in thin sheets, put holes in his cheeks, make his tongue a piece a burnt meat, and expose more bone around his teeth than was ever meant to be. Lambert’s eyes were wide open.

This job used to be so easy. Collect a debt here, get rid of a body there, but it was always straightforward and clean. There wasn’t this show. Creativity makes things so complicated.

“You know the most nerve endings a human being has is in his lips? That’s a little thing you can play jeopardy with, Mr. Smith,” Bopa said as the security guards came and swept up Lambert as I opened the window. My stomach was a revolution of acid and whiskey.

Smith’s shoulders shook as he wept. Bopa leaned over the desk and asked. “I win at Jeopardy because I like answers.”

Smith nodded, stood and practically ran out. He didn’t bother trying to wipe the chunks off his suit. Guess that was the least of his problems.

“Let’s go out back,” said Bopa. So we did. Or should I say I did while Bopa and the woman strolled the premises. I watched Bopa point at this flower, that shrub, his fat jabbing up to that one tree and imagined him giving her a lecture on beauty.

BIO: Chad's stories, poems, and non-fiction have appeared in multiple magazines and journals, most recently The Flash Fiction Offensive and Word Catalyst. Check out his website at http://crohrbacher.synthasite.com/